


When In Rome

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: John did not die, M/M, another fix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-18 14:17:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11292372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: Another attempt to fix the series' painful ending.





	1. Chapter 1

John sat on the side of Harold’s bed, a little bleary-eyed, but more worried about his friend than bothered by lack of sleep. It was the fourth time that night that sounds of choked weeping had woken John up. Each time, he’d either found Harold awake and apologizing, or still in the grip of tormented sleep. It was their first night in Rome.

“I’m so sorry, John. This isn’t what you signed on for.”

He’d signed on to accompany Harold to Italy. The hard work was behind them, Samaritan destroyed by the Ice-9 Virus, the world knitting itself back together. Fusco and Shaw had convinced Harold he should go to Italy, present himself to Grace, recapture what he’d lost years before. Harold was strangely resistant until John offered to go with him for moral support. Harold proposed that they spend a week in Rome, so he could think through what he was doing, prepare himself.

Their suite at the Cavalieri was huge. John’s own king-sized bed was in the next room, but it was 4 AM and he thought they would both get more sleep if he crashed right where he was.

“This bed’s pretty big, Finch. I think I’ll just stretch out here.” Harold made no protest so John pulled back the covers to claim the unused space. He pulled one of the many pillows into place and settled down on it. “Was it the same dream?” he asked.

“Yes, it is … persistent.”

The man’s subconscious had a vivid imagination. A clone of Samaritan in the Federal Reserve building. Made sense that a genius would have … genius nightmares. It didn’t surprise him that the bad dreams had come now, when the pressure was off, the threat lifted. It sometimes happened that way for soldiers.

“One good thing, Finch.”

“What’s that?” His voice was tentative in the dark.

“I got to be the hero … and save your life.”

“Oh John.”

He sounded so sad, so wounded, that John regretted mentioning any detail, even if it was true that he liked the part he played in Harold’s dream. Somewhere inside, Harold must understand how he felt. He would do anything, he would give anything, he’d certainly give his life, for him. He’d even give him up if it meant he would be happy.

Harold had no way of knowing what John had really signed on for with this trip. And he would never know. As he’d told Iris Campbell, he was good at keeping secrets. He’d kept this one for so long, it was practically an old friend. The years had quieted the passion. He wasn’t as tormented by physical longing as he had been in the beginning. Older now, and accustomed to denial. What really mattered to him was something deeper than that.

He couldn’t deny to himself that he’d like to be touched. The way Harold would touch Grace. But the pain of giving up something he’d never had, was manageable. What he did have, what was brutal to give up, was his place at Harold’s side. It would happen quickly, or slowly, but it would happen. A friend was not as close as a lover, a wife. Harold would still care about him, but Grace would be the one there. Sharing the box of donuts, hearing his voice, seeing his frowns, watching foreign films with too many subtitles. She’d be the one he would fuss over and look after. She would share his life.

“I’m right here,” he said, and thought, for now.

“Not much of a holiday for you, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t know. It’s a pretty comfy bed. You don’t snore as loud as Fusco.” He was happy to hear a quiet laugh at this but it was followed by a sigh.

 

***

Harold understood that his friends only wanted his happiness. Such … good friends. The trials he’d put them through, it was an almost unendurable burden of guilt. A part of him wished he could give them the storybook ending they wanted, his reunion with Grace. They didn’t understand what they were asking.

He knew John thought it was the aftershock of fear and stress, of grief, that was causing his nightmares. Undoubtedly there was some truth in it, but not the whole truth. What woke him crying out in the night, wasn't the past. It was the possible future and his fear of losing John. What his friends were urging on him as happiness, to him meant a terrible sacrifice. They had no way of knowing.

Somehow, he’d hoped when he planned this trip, that in the course of the week he spent with John in Rome, he would find the courage, the words to explain himself, to explain his feelings.

It was ironic that the man had climbed into bed with him here, now, as if to taunt Harold with all that was unspoken, all that was unspeakable.

He’d never been with a man in his life and yet he knew, as if it had happened already, what it would feel like. Probably awkward at first, but perfect at the same time, because it was John. Because it was someone he loved in more ways than Elizabeth Browning ever dreamed of in poetry. If it were to happen, it would be heaven on earth. If it did not, the much more likely outcome, it would still be better for John to know how he felt. Hadn’t he promised this man he would never lie to him. The truth was, that while Grace was lovingly enshrined in his memories, John Reese had occupied center stage in his heart for a very long time. 

He should tell him. He should speak. He should open his heart. If John was anything, Harold thought, it was … kind. Like now, making him laugh. But Harold’s eyes were watering and he doubted his voice would hold if he spoke.

Try to sleep, he told himself, wiping his tears.


	2. Chapter 2

John was up and out of bed first in the morning. He was hoping Harold would get in at least five or six solid hours. His own sleep, he didn’t bother to clock — he wasn’t the one with the nightmares. The rough part for him was lying so close once he’d woken up, inches from touching. Showered, shaved, and dressed, he caught up with email and texts while he kept an eye on Harold from a distance.

 

It wasn’t the first time they’d been in Rome together. John thought about that at breakfast, looking at him across the small cafe table. They were on a terrace with a distant view of the water.

At a similar place, smaller, deeper in the city, he’d met up with Harold their first time in Rome. Much different circumstances. He’d felt like a bad dog that day, approaching Harold with his tail tucked between his legs. The man was calmly waiting for him. It had been so hard to say, I want to come home, to even admit that he had a home. He never had said it, not straight out. He’d dodged it, saying he needed to get fitted for a new suit. Harold’s happiness had been open, generous. Kind words and understanding, not the smack John deserved. Harold never reproached him for running away, for the drinking and brooding, for beating the crap out of Fusco (and anyone else he could lay his hands on.) He didn’t reproach him for the way John had lashed out like an angry child, while lives were at risk. He’d welcomed him. The thought of it still caused an ache of gratitude in his heart.

He was grateful now to be wearing his sunglasses, to have his eyes hidden.

He listened to Harold order in Italian, sweet soft sounds, and wondered what they were having for breakfast. As if he’d read his mind, Harold looked up from his newspaper and said, “I ordered us espresso and zeppole. They’re doughnuts. Unless your tastes have mysteriously changed, I’m quite certain you’ll like them.”

He was right. The doughnuts were crisp and golden on the outside, filled inside with custard and fruit. The espresso was rich and strong. For long moments of sharing favorite foods, life was perfect.

 

***

 

Harold wasn’t happy without a real schedule for the day. “Taking it easy,” was John’s suggestion. Harold liked investigating possibilities, making plans. A busier agenda would have been helpful for avoiding difficult thoughts.

“We should be figuring out the details of what you’re going to tell Grace,” John reminded him. The lie. The purpose of this week, as he’d proposed it. A lie that was difficult to maintain but felt impossible to let go of.

They ended up renting a car. John loved driving and Harold watched the scenery, trying not to think. John made an impulsive detour to the beach, for which they were ill-prepared (having made no plan, he resisted pointing out.)

“It’ll be nice, Finch. We’ll get your toes wet.” Harold wasn’t convinced, but the Mediterranean beckoned. A rented blanket and umbrella. Bottles of sparkling water.

At the edge of the sand, John stopped him, laying all their stuff down. “Hang on,” he said. Harold watched, slightly aghast, as John dropped to his knees in front of him. “Lean on me and lift your foot.” The pleasure of it was unexpected and unspeakably sweet — bracing himself on the strong shoulders, John’s gentle handling of his feet. The brush of fingertips on his ankles as John carefully rolled up the hems of his trousers.

How long had it been since he’d felt sand between his toes or waves lapping at his feet? They staked their spot in the sand and then, with the cuffs of their shirts and trousers rolled up, they walked the beach through the shallow surf. 

Harold stretched out afterwards, pleasantly tired, on the shaded blanket. He reluctantly accepted John’s folded jacket for a pillow and nodded off watching John watch the sea.

He woke up to the beautiful sight of John’s bare back, his friend seated beside him.

“Were you too warm?” he asked, still sleepy.

John turned to look at him, offering a smile that made Harold feel weak.

“I’m fine. Your feet were getting too much sun.”

“Your poor shirt.”

“It’s just sand.”

He wished John would lie down with him … at the same time he was relieved that he hadn’t. If that face, those eyes, were any closer, what would he do, what would he say? How could he break a silence of so many years. Would John ever want to be this close to him again, if he knew the truth.

John was not the kind of person who would shun him, but, unavoidably the knowledge that Harold desired him would seep in. How much innocent contact would he lose if John felt self-conscious about touching him, being close to him. This was a train of thought that disturbed him on a number of levels. The image of himself as someone surreptitiously enjoying physical contact felt incredibly dishonest, unacceptable.

For so many years the reasons to keep his feelings to himself were stark, were, to some extent, noble as well as justifiable. The work was the most important thing. He was John’s employer. Personal feelings, attractions, couldn’t be allowed to interfere with a mission to save lives.

The mission had ended. John was his friend, not his employee. There was nothing left for him to hide behind. The possibility of continuing the way they were was rapidly receding. The pressure of what his friends wanted for him, their hope to see him reunited with Grace, was hastening the end. What he’d have given anything for years ago, to be with her, would now just be another lie.

 

***

 

John felt good, if a little worried about the return of Harold’s nightmares. They opted for an early night after a lazy seafood feast for dinner (accompanied by some really fine wine.) John debated offering to stay in Harold’s room, but he questioned his motives. In the end he didn’t offer. Maybe after such a relaxing day, his friend would sleep peacefully.

For him, it wasn’t a peaceful night. His mind roamed through the day, the pleasures were bittersweet. The beach. Harold succumbing to warmth and comfort, the sea breezes. John had mostly watched the water, but couldn’t resist looking at Harold. Most of his Harold-watching through the years was confined to the time the man was absorbed in his work, too wrapped up in what he was doing to notice John looking at him. To see him here, unguarded, at ease, and unaware, was a luxury. He was very appealing in his sleep and much more of him was visible than in bed, in the dark. John couldn’t help but think about touching him. A round thigh so close, the soft, relaxed belly. The swollen suggestion of a sleepy erection. 

This was a bad direction for his mind to move in, but his body had its own ideas. They’d been physically close since they’d gotten to Rome, more than usual, and it was having an effect. Tomorrow, he thought, I need to get him to focus on his meeting with Grace. That sobering thought followed John into uneasy sleep.

What woke him up was the silky, ticklish slide of the covers against his bare chest. He said nothing because it was obvious that his middle-of-the-night guest was trying not to wake him. John figured it was best to let him quietly get settled and go back to sleep. He liked that Harold had come to him, trusted him enough to steal into his bed. 

Harold didn’t really lie down and that was … odd. He was propped on his elbow, looking at John. Looking for a while. There was moonlight, diffuse behind Harold and John couldn’t see his face very well, but he realized that in that light, Harold could see him. It was too late to pretend to be asleep.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Harold said. He sounded kind of wistful, apologetic.

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was going to wait here … close to you. I need to talk to you.”

The way Harold said the words, “close to you,” softly stunned him. Like Harold had stolen a kiss. A shy kiss, an earnest kiss … a first kiss.

“There’s something I need to say, John. It’s not the right time, it’s definitely not the right place. Please forgive me, because if I don’t say this now … “ There was an awkward pause.

“Talk to me, Harold.” John desperately wanted him to continue. The invisible calculation of his senses, the wordless thoughts of his heart were still tasting every flavor of what felt like a kiss.

“The reason I brought you to Rome, it has nothing to do with Grace, or my past. I brought you here because I thought that … given seven days together, without work, without distractions, I could find a way to tell you how I feel.” Harold faltered, as if he’d gotten as far as he could.

John’s heart was soaring.

“If you feel the way I think you’re trying to say you do ... you picked the right place to tell me, Harold.” He reached out slowly, in case Harold wanted to stop him, though every cell in his body was sure he'd heard a confession of love, of desire. John ran his hand down Harold’s arm, feeling the shape through the thin fabric of his pajamas, and slowly back up to his shoulder.

Harold’s voice was a tortured whisper. “You want this?”

“I’m pretty sure I want this even more than you do. Lie back.” His heart beat hard as he guided him gently. “That’s good.” He smiled at the sight of Harold’s face in the moonlight, looking up at him with a kind of wonder. “Are you comfortable Harold?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He took Harold’s glasses and set them safely on the nightstand. He turned back to him, taking his time. He was a man who’d taken a very long, strange, and often dangerous journey. He’d reached a beautiful destination. Having arrived, he wanted to stop and appreciate where he was. It was important that Harold be comfortable … because once he began, John was sure he’d be kissing him for a very long time.


End file.
